


Lost In Shadows

by TinkerBella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinkerBella/pseuds/TinkerBella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically an angsty story where I whump D'Artagnan and the others comfort him and there's a whole lot of H/C and stuff.   You know, the usual.   There is the death of a child, which is sad and sets the story in motion.  </p>
<p>Oh, and THANK YOU to everyone who reviews and gives me Kudos.  You are made of win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost In Shadows

Athos stood on the crest of the hill, leaning against the stone wall of the monastery as he watched D'Artagnan sword play with one of the orphan boys who lived here. They both had wooden swords and the young Musketeer was happily letting the tiny eight-year old play kill him over and over again.

"D'Artagnan...will I make a good Musketeer?" Pierre asked, as he thrust his little sword towards the Gascon's belly.

"You will make a wonderful Musketeer," D'Artagnan replied, before clutching his stomach and dying a most dramatic death. At which point Pierre jumped on top of him until D'Artagnan rolled him over and tickled him mercilessly, the young boy's giggles floating through the air.

They led Porthos and Aramis to Athos' side, where they stood smiling as they watched the antics of their youngest Musketeer. 

Aramis chuckled as D'Artagnan tossed Pierre onto his back and ran around in and out of the small copse of trees, pretending to be a horse. "He's good with the boy," he said, stating the obvious.

"They're both children," Athos drawled, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. The teasing would have been more effective had D'Artagnan been there to hear him.

"Add Porthos into the mix," Aramis shot back, earning a smack to the back of his head from the big Musketeer. 

Porthos wasn't truly offended though, he would be the first to admit he was a kid at heart. "It's good to see D'Artagnan having fun." The lad had been feeling down at heart ever since Madame Bonacieux had broken said heart for the second time. Sometimes Porthos wished he could simply run his sword through her idiot husband and be done with it.

Athos shared Porthos' sentiment. It worried him how sad D'Artagnan had become in the past few months, as if all the light had been snuffed out of him. It was good to see him smiling and laughing with the exuberance of his youth. But as much as he was happy to see D'Artagnan enjoying himself, it was time for them to return to Paris. Their business here was done. "D'Artagnan!" Athos called out.

 

Immediately the young Gascon stopped playing, turning his attention to Athos. "Time to leave?" he guessed, as he slid Pierre off his back and onto the ground.

 

"Yes!" Athos waved as he shouted.

 

"Do you have to go?" Pierre asked, his big blue eyes filling with sudden tears. "I don't want you to go!" he insisted, promptly attaching himself to the Musketeer's leg. "Please don't go!"

 

D'Artagnan rather wished he could stay, for he had found a sense of peace here that he hadn't been able to secure for himself back in Paris. However, he carefully detached Pierre from his leg and moved to kneel before him. "On my honor I promise to come and visit you."

 

Pierre stopped weeping to stare at D'Artagnan hopefully. "You will? You'll come back?"

 

"As often as I'm able," D'Artagnan replied, with the utmost sincerity. Coming back to visit Pierre would be anything but a hardship. "I want you to practice your sword work while I'm gone. Can you do that for me?"

 

"I can!" Pierre almost bounced with happiness before throwing his arms around D'Artagnan's neck and hugging him as hard as he could. "I'll be the bestest of the best," he promised. 

 

D'Artagnan hugged the boy too him, blinking hard against sudden tears brought on by unbidden memories. "I know you will be," he countered, a bit gruffly. He detached Pierre from his person once more, ruffling the boy's hair as he rose to his feet. "Be good and I'll see you soon."

 

Pierre nodded. "I will, D'Artagnan. I promise." 

 

"Goodbye then." D'Artagnan waved then turned to join his friends.

 

"You're good with the boy," Porthos commented, as they four men moved to their horses. 

 

Before D'Artagnan could respond, Aramis interjected, "Well, he is little more than a child himself."

 

Leveling a glare at Aramis, who merely chuckled, D'Artagnan replied, "He reminds me of my little brother." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he desperately wished he could take them back. He didn't have to look at the others to know they were shocked by his confession.

 

"You have a brother?" Athos sounded almost unsettled as he moved to D'Artagnan's side.

 

"I did." Although he did not want to talk about this, D'Artagnan found it impossible to lie to the man. To any of them, really. But maybe he could distract them and they'd drop the subject. To that end, D'Artagnan mounted and made to head for the road. 

 

Porthos mounted and quickly joined him, picking up the conversation where D'Artagnan had left it. "Did?" he echoed. "So he died?"

 

That was Porthos, D'Artagnan mused. He didn't mince words, he just simply put everything out there. Maybe it was for the best, D'Artagnan thought, as the others soon joined them. He would tell them the story then put the memories back in the box where he kept them, locked deep inside his heart. "He died when he was eight. I was twelve."

 

"You must miss him terribly." That was Aramis, his curiosity tempered with concern and fellow feeling.

 

"I do," D'Artagnan allowed. "He was my best friend."

 

Athos moved up to his left side, his hat shadowing the expression on his face, but his tone was soft and filled with sympathy as he queried. "If I may ask, how did he die?"

 

D'Artagnan caught his breath as the memory washed over him, dragging him back to that day seven years ago. "We were playing a game," he said softly, falling back in time and into that moment. "Claude loved to hide so I would have to find him. But that day I was busy with the horses and I told him to go hide and I would find him in a few minutes. When I went to look for him, I couldn't find him anywhere. Then I heard him giggling and I looked up and he was in the tree." D'Artagnan broke off, too busy trying to control his emotions to speak. He blinked hard against the sting of tears, but one slid down his cheek, soon followed by another. 

 

"D'Artagnan..." Athos had moved up beside him and he reached for the reins to pull his horse up. "You don't have to continue."

 

"No, I want too." Wiping at his eyes, D'Artagnan pulled himself together. He had never told anyone about Claude's death, but he trusted these men and he wanted them to know. "Claude was small for his age, and he had a weak left side. He limped and he didn't have much use of his arm, so our mother forbid to climb trees. But he'd watch me do it and he'd ask me what it was like and I'd try to explain to him. But I know he longed to experience it for himself. So, somehow, he managed to get halfway up this tree. Before I could tell him to get down, my mother saw him and ran over shouting for him to get down." Once again D'Artagnan had to stop and collect himself. 

 

Aramis and Porthos moved closer, creating a circle around D'Artagnan, letting him see as well as feel their support. Along with Athos, they waited patiently for him to continue.

 

Their silent support gave D'Artagnan the courage he needed to go on. "Seeing our Mother startled Claude and because his left side was so weak, he lost his footing and fell. One minute he was laughing in the branches and the next minute he was lying at our feet, his neck broken."

 

"Mon dieu!" Aramis exclaimed, reaching for the cross around his neck and kissing it even as he whispered a prayer. "I'm so sorry, D'Artagnan. How awful for all of you."

 

"It destroyed my mother," D'Artagnan confessed. "She cried for days then she got sick and she never really got better. She died six months later from a fever."

 

Athos felt like someone had punched him in the gut. D'Artagnan had never talked about his family. After his father's death he had told Athos he had no reason to return home, there was no family waiting for him other than an Uncle who would happily take over care of the farm. The farm that LaBarge had burned to the ground. But the boy had never talked about his Mother or having a younger brother. Athos felt as if his heart were breaking for the pain and loss that D'Artagnan had suffered. And shame on them for dredging up such horrific memories. He reached for D'Artagnan, squeezing the boy's arm. "My sympathies," he said softly.

 

Before D'Artagnan could respond, the Monastery bell rang out, echoing loudly and making the horses startle.

 

"What does that mean?" Porthos asked, as the bell rang out again and again. He resisted the urge to cover his ears.

 

"It's a call for help!" Aramis replied, already wheeling his horse around. 

 

The others spurred their horses and followed, galloping back towards the monastery. As they neared they could see the trouble in the form of at least a dozen men who were attacking the monks. Thankfully it appeared the children were safely hidden away, but the raiders had weapons and were not afraid to use them against the weaponless monks.

 

Without slowing, the Musketeers entered the fray, slashing at the raiders with their swords in between firing shots. They quickly dwindled the numbers and the battle was nearly over when a young voice cried out.

 

"D'Artagnan!" It was Pierre, who was running towards the young Musketeer, wielding his toy sword.

 

"Pierre, no!" D'Artagnan shouted, running towards the boy with the intent to sweep him off to safety. But in that moment one of the raiders turned and hurled his dagger at the child. D'Artagnan didn't hesitate, he raised his pistol and fired off a shot, but the dagger slammed into Pierre's back, just seconds before the bullet hit the raider right between the eyes.

 

Pierre cried out as he was hit, his small body stumbling before hitting the ground.

 

D'Artagnan was beside him in an instant, pulling the boy into his arms, begging him to open his eyes. But Pierre was still and limp in his hold. Bending his head, D'Artagnan held his cheek near to Pierre's nose, waiting to feel the soft warm wisps of his breath. He felt nothing.

 

The others had turned when Pierre had called D'Artagnan's name, but they had all been too far away to reach them. They came running now, the last of the raiders dead around them. Aramis reached them first, falling to his knees and yanking off his gloves so he could run a hand over Pierre. But he knew it was too late, even as he pressed a finger to the boy's neck, searching for a heartbeat. 

 

"You have to save him," D'Artagnan whispered, eyes locked on Aramis' face. "Please save him." He would beg and plead and promise God above anything and everything for Pierre to be alive.

 

"I'm sorry," Aramis replied, his own dark eyes filled with sorrow. "He's gone, D'Artagnan. I'm sorry."

 

In that moment D'Artagnan shut down inside, slamming down walls against the emotions that battered at him. Shutting out the grief and pain and sorrow. He would not let himself feel this loss. He would not let himself feel anything. And it was so very easy to just turn it off. Everything slipped away in that moment and he felt numb. He did not feel the Monks ease Pierre from his embrace. He did not hear the words his Musketeer brothers spoke to him. He did not see nor feel the sunshine that beat down upon his head. He was wrapped in a silent, cool, white void.

 

Athos stared at D'Artagnan, wanting to go to the boy but suddenly the monks were there, taking Pierre and whisking him away. The head of the order, Andre, drew Athos aside and explained that they would prepare Pierre for burial and asked if they would like to stay for the ceremony. "We would and thank you. We will help you clean up before then." He was referring to the dead bodies of the raiders. They would bury them in a pit, although Athos rather wished they could bring them back to life and burn the bastards to hell.

 

"We appreciate your help," Andre replied. "But you must first look after your own." He nodded towards D'Artagnan before gliding off after the other monks. "I will pray for him," he called over his shoulder.

 

That comment left Athos cold and he moved to the young Musketeer who was still kneeling on the ground. He saw concern on Aramis' face and he dropped down beside them. "D'Artaganan?" He called the boy's name but received no reply. Cupping the young Gascon's face in both hands, Athos tried again. "D'Artagnan?" 

 

Porthos clapped a hand on his shoulder. "He's not responding and his eyes are just...empty." The big man shuddered.

 

"He's retreated into himself," Aramis explained. "He's slipping into shock as well and we need to get him cleaned up and warm." He wrapped his arms around D'Artagnan, easing the boy to his feet. For his part, D'Artagnan was pliant enough, letting Aramis guide him toward the monastery although he stumbled a bit, as if he had no real control over his body.

 

"Will he be allright?" Athos queried, once they were settled in a small room offered to them by Andre. The monk had water and rags brought to them, along with a bottle of wine. 

 

Aramis shrugged. "I hope so." D'Artagnan was curled up on the bed, having been stripped down to his shirtsleeves, breeches and boots. He had some bruises and a few cuts that Aramis had tended too and now the older Musketeer was washing the blood from D'Artagnan's hands. Pierre's blood. The young Gascon made no move to help, nor had he flinched or made a sound the whole time Aramis was treating his injuries. 

 

Athos fell heavily into the single chair in the room. "What's wrong with him?" He could fight what he knew, but this was scaring him. He had seen D'Artagnan angry and sad and confused and remourseful amongst a thousand other emotions, but this docile and silent being before him was a stranger. "Did he get hit in the head?" He would accept that as an explanation.

 

"It's not a physical injury," Aramis replied, setting aside the blood stained rag and reaching for a clean one to dry D'Artagnan's hands. He finished his task then reached out to push the dark bangs from the boy's eyes before drawing a blanket over him. "Just let him rest. I'm hoping once the shock wears off he'll come back to us."

 

"He must!" Athos snarled, because he could accept nothing else. Rising to his feet he strode out, needing to keep himself busy, needing action to hold back the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. D'Artagnan had to be okay. He had to be.

 

Porthos followed Athos, his own heart heavy with fear and sadness. Together they worked to clear away the dead bodies, working side by side with several monks. They did not speak of D'Artagnan, but the boy was in their thoughts and prayers.

 

It was dusk when the ceremony for Pierre's burial began. D'Artagnan stood with the Musketeers, still silent and distant, reacting to nothing and no one other than to follow where he was guided. It worried Athos to no end. He wanted D'Artagnan to react in some way. To scream or shout or simply weep as prayers were said over Pierre before the child's tiny body was laid to rest in the earth near a beautiful tree. The tree where he and D'Artagnan had played and laughed just hours before.

 

"It is late," Andre said to Athos, when the burial was done. "You must stay the night."

 

"My thanks for your offer," Athos replied. "It will give D'Artagnan the chance to rest before we go."

 

Andre nodded, his eyes on the young Gascon. "He has retreated deep inside himself. He may not come back to you. If that be the case, we will happy to care for him." It was a generous and sincere offer.

 

One that Athos was not willing to accept. "D'Artagnan will heal and he come home with us. But thank you." He could not keep himself from being abrupt, even as he turned to join his brothers. They returned to the small room, where straw mattresses and blankets had been left for them.

 

Aramis guided D'Artagnan to the only bed, sighing as the boy allowed himself to be undressed and tucked under the covers. It was almost creepy how D'Artagnan's eyes remained open and fixed upon nothing. He wished he could simply slap the boy and yell at him and make him react to them, but he knew it was not that simple. All Aramis could do was pray for D'Artagnan, and that he would do throughout the night, for he knew none of them would sleep.

 

For Athos the night seemed to last forever. He lay upon his straw mattress, and at times he found himself dozing off, but for the most part he watched D'Artagnan. The boy never closed his eyes, never moved, never spoke. He simply lay on the bed staring at...what? It chilled Athos to the bone to see him like this. A chill wrapped all the tighter around him come dawn when it was clear there was no change in D'Artagnan.

 

"What do we do?" Porthos asked. They all knew that D'Artagnan could not function as a Musketeer in his present condition. 

 

"I do not know," Athos replied, as he watched Aramis attend to the boy. D'Artagnan made no effort to dress himself, but he did allow Aramis to do so. It was like watching a father dress his child and it terrified Athos in a way few things ever had. 

 

Porthos turned away, his heart aching to see D'Artagnan in such a state. He was like a rag doll, not a young man. It hurt Porthos to see the usually vibrant boy this way, knowing that he had locked himself away from them, perhaps to be lost forever. "Maybe Treville knows a physician who could help."

 

Athos had his doubts. His biggest fear is that D'Artagnan would end up locked away in an asylum. Not that he would allow that to happen. Perhaps returning to the Garrison would be good for the boy. Maybe the familiar surrounding would bring him back to them. "We'll take him home," Athos announced. "Being back in Paris may be the very thing to turn D'Artagnan back around." As he spoke he looked to Aramis for confirmation.

 

"Perhaps," the Musketeer replied, as he guided D'Artagnan to the door. "We can but hope." He wanted to offer more reassurance, but he had spoken with Andre and the monk had confirmed his own worst fears. Pierre's death had shocked D'Artagnan into retreating far into his own mind. To a place he might never return from. They needed to prepare for the worst, but he did not want to worry his friends until there was no other hope.

 

"I'll let Brother Andre know we're leaving," Porthos offered, rushing out before them. He was not long and by the time Athos and Aramis got D'Artagnan mounted on his horse, he was back to mount his own. 

 

Athos held the reins to D'Artagnan's mount, not wanting to risk that the boy might take off on them unexpectedly. But that turned out not to be a concern, the problem occurred when they reached the edge of the monastery property. In that moment D'Artagnan launched himself from the saddle, hitting the ground hard and rolling immediately to his feet. In a flash he was running back towards the monastery. 

 

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos shouted.

 

"Get him!" Athos ordered, reining in both horses and turning to follow as well. He watched as Porthos reached the boy, moving to block him. But D'Artagnan simply pushed around the horse and continued running.

 

Porthos followed him, moving ahead so he could dismount and grab D'Artagnan as the boy made to run by him. The moment Porthos touched him, D'Artagnan lashed out, forcing Porthos to tackle him to the ground before pinning him there with his greater bulk and strength.

 

As Athos and Aramis reached them, D'Artagnan was fighting against Porthos' hold with everything in him. He was like a wild thing, kicking and writhing and desperately trying to get free.

 

Leaping off his horse, Athos fell to his knees beside them, feeling Aramis join him to help Porthos hold D'Artagnan down. Cupping the boy's face in both hands, Athos tried to reach him. "D'Artagnan, it's me. Athos. You need to calm down, please calm down!" But, if anything, D'Artagnan fought harder.

 

It was Aramis who discovered the means to calm the boy. "We'll go back, D'Artagnan," he stated. "We'll go back to the Monastery. Back to Pierre." The moment he said Pierre's name, D'Artagnan went still.

 

"Dammit!" Athos hissed, falling back to sit down with his head resting on his knees. Returning to the monastery felt like failure, somehow. He was failing D'Artagnan.

 

"We'll figure this out," Porthos stated, as if reading Athos' mind. "It's going to be all right." He clapped Athos on the shoulder before moving to lift D'Artagnan to his feet, then back onto his horse where he sat almost crumpled over, obviously exhausted.

 

Aramis helped Athos to rise. "We'll need to send word to Treville, asking for time to care for D'Artagnan."

 

Athos nodded, wearily mounting his own horse. "I'll draft a note, perhaps the monks know of someone trusted who can deliver it to Treville." And that was as far ahead as he was willing to think. When they reached the monastery, Andre was waiting for them, as if he had expected this to happen.

 

"I have a room prepared that will be comfortable for all of you," he said softly. When Athos made his request for a messenger, he nodded. "Frederick will make the journey and return with a reply within two days. He is both swift and trustworthy."

 

"I'll draft a note immediately," Athos stated, following Andre to his rooms for supplies. When he returned to the room he found Porthos trying to get D'Artagnan to eat something. Tossing his cape onto a nearby chair, Athos took note of the fact that they were in a much larger room than before, spacious enough for four beds and a table with four chairs. Two of the beds were pushed together, and Athos caught Aramis' eye, nodding his approval. D'Artagnan needed to rest and they needed to keep close to him.

 

Moving to Athos' side, Aramis whispered, "I put herbs in the wine, see if you can get him to drink it."

 

Athos grabbed a goblet and moved to sit in front of D'Artagnan. "You must drink something," he stated, placing the goblet in the boy's hand and lifting it to his mouth. To his surprise, D'Artagnan took a few swallows."

 

"Huh, didn't think it would be that easy," Aramis muttered, looking amused.

 

"Maybe he'll eat by the same means," Porthos stated, taking the goblet and replacing it with a chunk of bread. He guided it to the boy's mouth and, thankfully, D'Artagnan took a bite. Unfortunately he stopped eating after a few mouthfuls. 

 

Aramis gestured for Porthos to let it go. "We'll let D'Artagnan rest for a bit then try again." To that end he guided the young Musketeer to the beds that were pushed together and eased him down until he was sitting on the edge. Gently, Aramis removed D'Artagnan's leather jacket and boots before nudging him into curling up on his side. 

 

Grabbing a blanket, Athos spread it over the boy, unable to resist ruffling the dark hair. Then he abruptly turned away. "I'll be outside if you need me," he stated, all but running for the door. He felt as if the walls of the room were closing in on him, suffocating him with fear. Fear that D'Artagnan would never return to them.

 

Porthos watched Athos go, shaking his head. "I'm not sure who to worry about more," he confessed, for he knew to lose D'Artagnan in this way would destroy the other man. 

 

"We will care for them both," Aramis stated, even as he rubbed a hand over D'Artagnan's lean back, trying to soothe the boy into slumber. He simply lay there, eyes wide open for a long time. But the herbs Aramis had put in the wine finally kicked in and D'Artagnan drifted to sleep. 

 

As promised, Frederick returned with a message from Treville in two days. Athos informed the others that they had a fortnight before they were ordered to return to Paris. Fourteen days to find a way to bring D'Artagnan back to them.

 

It would not be easy. D'Artagnan spent each day sitting by Pierre's grave come rain or shine. They had learned the first morning to have Porthos sleep in one bed pushed in front of the door, for D'Artagnan would slip away from them as silent as a shadow otherwise. The first time had sent them all into a panic, until Brother Andre had informed them of D'Artagnan's whereabouts. The monk kept watch over the young musketeer with as much vigilance as Athos, Aramis and Porthos combined. For which Athos was most grateful and he had offered Brother Andre a bag of coins for his troubles. 

 

Andre had refused, reminding Athos that he would be more than willing to care for D'Artagnan should the boy's condition remain unchanged. Athos had insisted that would not be necessary, but after one week passed with no change, he was beginning to fear they would have no choice but to leave the young Gascon behind.

 

Another fear was the fact that D'Artagnan ate little and was losing weight he could ill afford to lose, and he slept only when Aramis drugged him. The boy was becoming thin, fragile and ever weaker. Athos worried that he would become ill and die before they could bring his mind back around. 

 

Brother Andre had seen D'Artagnan's decline and he spoke with Aramis, asking that he be allowed to be in charge of making certain the boy ate properly. Athos was not pleased when Aramis agreed, and he had to be pulled away for a time when Andre took D'Artagnan from them. He had returned a few hours later with the boy, insisting that all was well, and in truth D'Artagnan did not look any worse for wear. 

 

"What did you do to him?" Athos had demanded.

 

"I made him eat," Brother Andre replied, unmoved by the Musketeers fury. "It is not pleasant, " he allowed. "But it is necessary if you wish for him to be well."

 

Porthos had intervened, pushing Athos away even as he thanked Brother Andre for his help. Three days later, Athos had to admit that whatever Andre was doing when he took D'Artagnan off with him four times a day, did seem to be helping. The boy wasn't gaining much weight, but neither was he losing more and he seemed to have a bit more energy. Enough to encourage Athos to take him for a ride.

 

Riding appeared to be the one thing D'Artagnan reacted to. Atho had saddled their horses and brought them to Pierre's graveside where D'Artagnan was sitting. The young Musketeer had allowed Athos to pull him to his feet and he had mounted his horse willingly.

 

It was hard for Athos to feel anything but sadness as they rode towards the copse of trees near the stream that meandered behind the monastery, for they had but two days left before Treville expected them to return to Paris. But he made himself focus on the here and now as they dismounted to sit beneath the shade of a small tree. Athos retrieved some cheese and apples from his saddle bags and he was pleased when D'Artagnan accepted the fruit and began to eat on his own.

 

They sat and watched the water trickle over rocks as they ate, shifting a bit to soak up the afternoon sun. Exhaustion wore at Athos to the point where he drifted off to sleep without meaning too. He jerked awake with a start, uncertain of what startled him but sensing that something was wrong. He felt groggy from his nap and was slow to respond until too late. Athos looked up to find himself surrounded by four men, all armed and pointing pistols at him. He raised his hands and felt both fear and relief to see no sign of D'Artagnan or the boy's horse. Athos could not allow himself to worry that the young Musketeer was gone, he could only hope that he was safe and be grateful that he was not facing down the four armed men.

 

A man with a heavy beard and a pock-marked face grinned at Athos. "I've heard stories about Musketeers," he drawled. "You're a bit of a disappointment, I must say."

 

"Is there something I can do for you?" Athos countered, refusing to rise to the taunt. He had set his sword and pistol aside while he and D'Artagnan had rested, and now he regretted the fact that his weapons were out of reach. As unobtrusively as he could, he glanced about hoping that D'Artagnan had ridden back to the monastery and that his return alone would send a message to Porthos and Aramis to come looking for Athos.

 

"I'm a bit bored," the pock-marked man confessed. "Why don't you dance for me?" And with that he fired a shot at Athos' feet, making him jump back.

 

The others soon joined in, another firing off a shot while the other two jabbed at Athos with their swords, one of them slicing a cut on the back of Athos' neck as he turned to try and ward him off. It was a game at first, but soon they beat at him for the sheer sport of bringing him to his knees before kicking him and jabbing at him en masse until the leader yelled at them to back off.

 

Athos wasn't severely injured, but he was bruised and cut and hurting all the same. He was ready to be done with the game. He glared at the leader, willing him to finish this, for Athos knew they did not intend to let him survive and he was too beat up and out numbered to stop them.

 

"The only good musketeer is a dead Musketeer," the pock-marked leader declared, moving to stand over Athos with his pistol pointed at the Musketeer's head. 

 

Only to jump and whirl at the sound of pounding hoof-beats and a cry of anger.

 

And suddenly D'Artagnan was there, launching himself off his horse at the leader and bringing him down to the ground. A heartbeat later he was on his feet, the leader's pistol in hand, firing a deadly shot into one of the others. Like an avenging angel, D'Artagnan whirled, scooping a sword off the dead man and gliding towards the two remaining. Both chose to run rather than face the young man's wrath, and D'Artagnan stared after them for a moment before turning to drop down beside Athos, chest heaving, body shaking, eyes wide and dark in his pale face.

 

"A-Athos..." he whispered, looking anguished.

 

"D'Artagnan?" Forgetting his injuries, Athos rose to his knees reaching out to cup the boy's face. He prayed that his fears would be laid to rest. "Look at me!" he demanded, feeling breathless as brown eyes locked upon his blue. "Are you with me?" he asked.

 

D'Artagnan dropped the sword he was holding, almost folding into himself as he stammered an apology. "Forgive me...I'm so sorry. I thought....I thought you were..." he could not finish as his words were choked off by a sob.

 

Athos felt almost dizzy with relief as he pulled D'Artagnan into his embrace, holding him as tight as he rocked them both. "I'm fine, D'Artagnan," he promised. "I'm fine...you saved me." In more ways than one, Athos thought, for the boy had come to him.

 

Tears slid down D'Artagnan's face unheeded as he clutched Athos' shirt in both hands, clinging as if afraid to let go, body still trembling hard enough to make his teeth chatter.

 

"It's allright, it's all right," Athos whispered, in a soft and soothing litany. Over and over he whispered reassurances until he felt the tremors ease and the slender body relaxed into him. For a time Athos was content to simply hold the boy, but after a time he knew they had to return. Easing back he used the back of one hand to wipe the tears from D'Artagnan's face. "Can you ride?" he asked, for he wanted the others to see this miracle. For it was nothing short of miraculous and Athos had no regret for his own injuries. He no longer felt any pain, for his heart was filled with joy. Rising to his feet, he pulled D'Artagnan up with him and repeated, "Can you ride? The others will be worried."

 

"I can ride," D'Artagnan whispered, allowing Athos to guide him to his horse. He mounted without argument, waiting for Athos to mount as well.

 

They rode side by side, silent, both lost in their own thoughts. 

 

Athos wondered if D'Artagnan realized what had happened over the past two weeks but he was so happy that the boy had returned he didn't care enough to ask. They could talk about it later. For now he wanted to deliver the good news to the others.

 

Somehow it was not surprising to Athos that Aramis and Porthos were mounted and about to come in search of them.

 

"You were gone a long time," Porthos chided, his eyes narrowing as he took in the bruising on Athos' face. "What happened?" 

 

"A slight scuffle with a few undesirables," Athos replied. "They were dealt with." He was about to inform them that D'Artagnan had returned to them, when the boy took matters into his own hands.

 

"My apologies," D'Artagnan stated. "Athos..." he began.

 

But Athos knew he was about to blame himself for what had happened with the armed men, and he would not allow it. "I fell asleep and was set upon by four men, but D'Artagnan was swift to dispatch them. I owe him my life."

 

Porthos was staring at D'Artagnan, a smile splitting his face. He slid off his horse, ran to the boy, and pulled him down into a bear hug. "You're back!"

 

"Was I gone?" D'Artagnan grunted but did not try to free himself.

 

"For a time," Aramis replied, sliding off his own horse and coming over to wrestle D'Artagnan out of Porthos' embrace. He pulled the young Musketeer into a hug before easing back and ruffling the dark hair, making the boy slap his hand away. "We missed you."

 

D'Artagnan turned and looked at Athos, obviously seeking an explanation.

 

Athos nodded. "Let's get cleaned up and we'll talk in our room." Sliding off his horse he took the reins and headed up the hill. He hid a smile when D'Artagnan fell into step beside him, Porthos and Armamis following close behind.

 

Brother Andre greeted them with a smile, he and another monk taking the horses to the stable as the Musketeers guided D'Artagnan to their room. They watched the boy as he gazed about as if seeing the place for the first time.

 

"What do you remember?" Athos prompted, wanting to ease into an explanation so that they would not overwhelm D'Artagnan.

 

"Pierre," D'Artagnan whispered, before sinking down into a nearby chair as his eyes darkened with sorrow. In that moment he remembered cradling the tiny body and the feel of warm blood slicking his hands. "I...I couldn't save him."

 

Aramis moved to kneel beside him. "That was not your fault, D'Artagnan. Don't drift back into that dark place."

 

D'Artagnan shook his head. "It wasn't dark so much as white and silent," he replied. 

 

"Do you remember what happened during that time?" Athos queried.

 

"I was drifting in shadows," D'Artagnan whispered. "I felt nothing. There was...nothing." He shivered as if cold and Porthos scooped a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around him like a cloak. D'Artagnan clutched it to him. "It was like being lost in a dream that I couldn't wake up from. I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to remember."

 

Athos sat down beside him. "We thought you were lost to us. Treville gave us a fortnight to get you back and I thought..." he couldn't finish that thought for the words choked him.

 

Porthos clapped a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder, grounding him. "Doesn't matter now anyway," he stated. "You're back and we can go home."

 

"How long was I...out of it?" D'Artagnan asked, for he could see the relief on his friend's faces. But beneath it he could see exhaustion and worry and he hated the fact that he had been the cause of it.

 

"Almost three weeks," Aramis replied, refusing to lie to the boy. "You had me a bit worried, I admit." 

 

Shocked that he'd been a burden for such a long time, D'Artagnan offered more apologies. "I'm so sorry. I should have been stronger than that. I'm surprised Treville wants me back." He locked eyes with the three of them. "I'm surprised you want me back." And that was a bitter truth he found hard to swallow, but he wouldn't hide from it.

 

Athos jumped to his feet, vibrating with anger. "No apologies!" he snapped. "You did nothing wrong, D'Artagnan! Never doubt that." He wasn't angry at the boy, but at the thought that D'Artagnan would blame himself for what happened. 

 

"I can't help but feel as if I've failed you all somehow," D'Artagnan countered, rising to his feet with the intent to leave the room. He wanted some time alone to deal with everything that had happened. To lick his wounds in private, so to speak. But he took one step and the ground tilted beneath his feet and he felt himself falling.

 

"Easy, lad." Porthos caught D'Artagnan and practically carried him over to the nearest bed. He pushed him down and held him there. "You need to rest."

 

Aramis was there, covering D'Artagnan with another blanket. "Porthos is right. Sleep and you need to eat when you wake up and then we'll talk again. All is well. Sleep." He combed his fingers through D'Artagnan's hair, soothing him into slumber.

 

And it was so much easier to obey than to fight, so D'Artagnan closed his eyes and let himself slip into darkness.

 

"Athos?" It was Aramis, guiding him over to another bed. "Let me tend your injuries."

 

"I'm fine," Athos insisted, ever consistent in this particular lie.

 

But Aramis was stubborn and persistent. "D'Artagnan will need you at your best. Come."

 

And so he gave in, letting Aramis clean him up, ply him with food and wine, then he allowed himself to sleep as well.

 

* * *

 

It should have been simple, but then D'Artagnan should have known it could never be.

 

He slept and dreamed of Pierre and of Claude and he remembered. And in those memories he found determination. He would be stronger now, he would be better. To that end he strove to eat what was placed before him when he got up the next day, but the broth would not stay put no matter how much he willed it to.

 

"What's wrong with him?" Athos asked of Aramis, as the other man cleaned out the basin that D'Artagnan had thrown up into for the fourth time in as many hours.

 

"I think his mind and his body are at war with each other," Aramis replied. "Give him time, he'll adjust."

 

Athos wanted to believe, but doubt taunted him. "We need to leave back to Paris in the morning."

 

Aramis sighed. "I know and D'Artagnan will be ready. Have faith."

 

From where he lay on the bed, curled up in misery, D'Artagnan heard them and fought against his own doubt. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, for Aramis had assured him that rest would help him heal. But he hated feeling so weak, being so weak. He hated that he was once again a burden to the others.

 

"Sleep, D'Artagnan," Porthos beseeched him. The mattress shifted as the big man sat beside him, a big hand coming to rest on his back offering both warmth and comfort. "You've won the war, lad. Gather your strength and you'll push through this little skirmish. We're here and we'll help you. So rest."

 

A part of D'Artagnan wanted to argue, but he was too weary to make the effort. Instead he let himself sleep, but he had to will himself not to become lost in the shadows again.

 

He did not hear the whispers of concern from his Musketeer brothers, but he sensed their warm presence keeping vigil over him, and it kept him grounded in the light.

 

* * *

 

Come morning D'Artagnan found himself the only one awake. He slid quietly from the bed and slipped from the room. The adjoining chamber had everything to take care of his bodily needs from relieving himself to washing up. Once refreshed he sought out breakfast, not surprisingly finding Brother Andre in the kitchens. They shared a porridge that was difficult for D'Artagnan to swallow, but he forced down bite after bite and fought to keep it down.

 

"Do not push yourself too hard," Brother Andre cautioned. 

 

"I'm good," D'Artagnan replied, offering a shaky smile before making a request. "Would you let my friends know that I've gone to visit Pierre's grave before we leave?"

 

Andre nodded. "Of course." 

 

D'Artagnan thanked him for his help before heading off to climb the hill to the tree underneath which little Pierre was buried. He said a prayer for his young friend before promising to return some day, then he sat there for a time until he felt his stomach lurch and he stumbled over to a thicket of brambles to vomit up breakfast. D'Artagnan felt dizzy and had to rest a bit before he felt strong enough to return to the monastery, all the while cursing his weakness.

 

Athos was waiting for him. "Are you ready to go? Porthos and Aramis have saddled the horses and I've said our goodbye's to Brother Andre."

 

"I'm ready," D'Artagnan stated, managing a smile. "I'm anxious to get home and back to our duties." He meant that with all his heart, for he was ready for everything to go back to normal.

 

"As am I," Athos replied, feeling hopeful. Although it worried him that D'Artagnan looked so pale and fragile, unlike his usual vibrant and energetic self. 

 

They joined Aramis and Porthos and mounted up. The foursome rode until midday, when Porthos complained that he was starving. They settled in beneath a tree with water bags and the meal Brother Andre had provided of bread and cheese and dried mutton. 

 

D'Artagnan took his share before moving to sit beside Athos. He wasn't the least bit hungry, but he forced himself to chew and swallow, needing a fair amount of water to keep the food down. Only to scramble to his feet a moment later, rushing aside to empty his stomach until nothing but bile came up. So wrapped up in his misery was he, that it took a while for him to notice that Aramis was beside him with an arm around his waist and a hand on the back of his neck to support him.

 

The Musketeer guided D'Artagnan back to the tree to sit down before offering him a water skin. D'Artagnan took it gratefully, rinsing and spitting to clear his mouth of the bitter taste, before taking a few soothing sips to ease the ache in his throat. 

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

 

"Nothing to be sorry for," Aramis countered. They hadn't worn their cloaks, for the day was warm, but Aramis had fetched his to make a pillow and he pressed D'Artagnan to lie down. "Rest for a bit, we're in no rush." When he was certain the boy had drifted to sleep he joined the others.

 

Athos could not hold his tongue. "What is wrong with him?" It gutted him to see D'Artagnan in this state. To see the young Gascon so weak and fragile. Athos feared for him, and that fear was making him angry. Angry because he felt so damn helpless.

 

Aramis sighed, one hand running through the tangle of his hair, betraying his own anxiety. "I think, subconsciously, D'Artagnan is trying to punish himself."

 

"Why would he do that?" Porthos hissed. He could not comprehend such a thing in regards to D'Artagnan. The boy was young and good and good-hearted, he had no sins that needed to be punished.

 

"He doesn't mean for it to happen," Aramis explained, although he found it difficult to make sense of it himself.

 

Athos closed his eyes, stealing himself for the inevitable. "How do we stop it? How do we fix him?"

 

Aramis shook his head, wishing he had the answer. "I don't know," he admitted, and it hurt like a physical ache.

 

Whirling, Athos strode off to try and control his anger. He wasn't mad at Aramis, or D'Artagnan, he was angry at himself if anything. He could defend D'Artagnan against the bad guys and the world at large, but he didn't know how to help the boy fight his inner demons. How could he? when he couldn't even defeat his own.

 

And hour passed as D'Artagnan rested, but then they mounted and headed out once more. Come dark they came across a tavern and took lodging for the night. They were all tense and exhausted and a fresh start in the morning would be to their benefit.

 

Porthos took care of the horses while Athos secured their rooms and Aramis procured their evening meal. Once settled in the large room with two double beds, the four men sat at the table. Porthos wasted no time digging into the stew and bread and Aramis soon followed suit.

 

Athos had little appetite, but he made himself eat, his eyes locked on D'Artagnan's pale face. "You have to eat."

 

"I know." D'Artagnan looked at the bowl of stew and felt his stomach twist into knots. Just the smell made him nauseous and he wanted nothing more than to leave the room. Instead he continued to stare at the bowl, glaring at it as if it were a mortal enemy, but he could not make himself pick up the spoon.

 

"Eat!" Athos stated, pushing the bowl closer to the boy. He watched him flinch back and anger welled up. The anger wasn't at D'Artagnan, but at the severity of the situation. Athos was afraid for the boy, and that fear fueled him into taking a drastic step, one he hoped would not make things worse. 

 

Rising to his feet, Athos moved to stand beside D'Artagnan, grabbing the spoon off the table and curling the boy's fingers around it. "You will eat every bite or I will shove it down your throat!" he snarled, ignorning the gasps of shock from Aramis and Porthos and focusing solely on D'Artagnan. Athos hoped his friends would all understand what he was doing and why.

 

D'Artagnan gaped at Athos, stunned by the ferocity of his threat and finding himself trembling a bit both in fear and anger. Not fear of Athos, but fear that he would follow through on his threat. "I'm trying!" he insisted, willing the other man to believe him.

 

"Try harder!" Athos snapped, slamming a fist down on the table top and making it rattle. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do what needs to be done!"

 

"What?" D'Artagnan could not believe what he was hearing, he could not believe Athos was say such things.

 

Neither could Porthos. "What?" he hissed, grabbing Athos by the arm, only to be shoved away and ignored.

 

All of Athos' focus was honed in on D'Artagnan. "You heard me!" he growled. "If you can't control your emotions, control your own body - what good are you? Hmm? Like this you are of no use to the Musketeers!"

 

Porthos had heard enough. He was ready to punch Athos for being so cruel to the boy, but before he could take a step he was yanked back by Aramis.

 

"Just wait," the Musketeer cautioned his friend. "Trust Athos."

 

"Athos," D'Artagnan whispered, "You don't mean that." But even as he spoke, D'Artagnan realized the truth. It hit him like a slap in the face. He knew what the other man was doing, he was trying to push him into getting better. "I...it's not that simple," he countered, beseeching Athos to believe him. "I wish it was. I'm trying, Athos, I am. Trust me!" He rose from the table and faced the man who meant the world to him, begging him to understand. "I'm angry at myself for being so weak. I'm angry at the world to being so unfair. I'm angry at God for taking Claude and Pierre -"

 

Athos cut him off, knowing now what was eating away at D'Artagnan. He cursed himself for not guessing sooner, perhaps he could have saved the boy some misery. He gripped the young musketeer by the shoulders and waited until the dark eyes were locked on his. "You are not to blame for your brother's death, D'Artagnan. Nor for Pierre's. Do you hear me?"

 

D'Artagnan shook his head, gaze flickering away for he could not let Athos see his shame. "I should have saved them."

 

"And I should have saved Thomas," Athos countered, confessing his own sorrows. "But I could not, just as you could not. You must let it go, D'Artagnan." The sorrow in D'Artagnan's dark eyes was the same he saw often reflected in his own. Sorrow and regret and both could drown a man, could so easily destroy him. No one knew that better than himself and Athos was desperate to save the boy from that same fate. "You have to let it go," he repeated, wanting the young Musketeer to hear him and understand.

 

"Perhaps you should simply let me go," D'Artagnan whispered, feeling broken inside. Only to yelp in pain a moment later when Athos back handed him hard across the face.

 

Athos could not control his anger as he shook the boy. "That's it? You just give up? Damn you for a coward, D'Artagnan! How you disappoint me!" He could not stop the words from tumbling out, even as he felt D'Artagnan flinch as if each word struck him like a blow to his body.

 

Each word Athos hurled at him, struck D'Artagnan like a knife and he felt as if he would crumble from the pain, even as a rush of anger wash over him in a soothing wave. He shoved Athos away from him, shoved him hard so that he struck the wall. But D'Artagnan surged forward, one arm pulling back before he punched the other man as hard as he could. Athos fell to the floor and D'Artagnan stood over him, screaming, "Don't you say that! Don't you say that about me!"

 

From the floor, Athos saw Aramis and Porthos moved towards him but he waved them away. He understood D'Artagnan's anger and he welcomed it. The boy was finally breaking apart but he would not be alone to pick up the pieces. 

 

In the space between heartbeats, D'Artagnan's anger died replaced by horror as the sight of Athos lying at his feet. He backed away from his mentor, stumbling before tripping over a chair and falling into the wall. Pushing himself back onto his feet, D'Artagnan pulled back a fist and punched the wall with all his might. He felt the pain of cracked knuckles spreading swiftly up his arm and into his shoulder until his entire body vibrated with it. But it wasn't enough. The emotional pain was still too strong, still drowning him. He drew back his arm to try again.

 

Strong arms grabbed him around the waist, hauling D'Artagnan away from the wall, away from his target. He fought against them, only distantly realizing it was Porthos who held him. "Let me go!" D'Artagnan snarled, writhing and kicking out and trying desperately to free himself. 

 

But Porthos held firm, his hold on D'Artagnan never breaking. "Calm down, lad! Calm down," the big Musketeer begged. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.

 

D'Artagnan needed to break free, he needed to run, to hide, to escape this pain and misery. He fought harder, struggling and pleading but the arms around him didn't let go and he found himself growing weaker in Porthos' embrace, his knees buckling and blackness swirling over him.

 

Athos watched as Porthos lowered D'Artagnan to the floor, never letting go of the boy, refusing to give D'Artagnan the opportunity to hurt himself again. But it was obvious that the young Musketeer was becoming lost in the pain and grief and darkness. Athos could not allow him to do that again, he couldn't lose him again. So he crawled over to them, reaching out to cup D'Artagnan's beautiful young face in both hands. "Let it go," Athos begged. "Let go of the pain." He watched as a single tear slid down D'Artagnan's cheek, soon followed by another and another. 

 

"Please...please," D'Artagnan pleaded, not even knowing what he was asking for. And suddenly he found himself wrapped in Athos' arms, even as Porthos still cradled him though he'd loosened his hold. So D'Artagnan was able to lift his arms, his fingers curling into Athos' shirt, clinging to him in an attempt to anchor himself in this reality. 

 

"I've got you," Athos promised into D'Artagnan's hair as he rested his cheek against the top of the dark head. "I've got you." He would keep this promise, he would be there for the boy always.

 

D'Artagnan listened to Athos' words, to his promise, and it wrapped around him like a warm cloak on a cold winter's night. He was not alone, these men would never let him be alone. He could trust them, believe in them, because they knew pain and sorrow and grief and loss. They understood the chaos that was his heart and soul. They would not run from him, rather they would stand beside him and support him with their bodies, their words and their actions.

 

He clung to Athos, feeling the haven of Porthos' bulk behind him and the comfort of Aramis' hand against the back of his neck as he gave in to his tears, feeling lighter in body and soul with each one that rolled down his face. D'Artagnan let himself fall apart, knowing that his brothers would put him back together again. 

 

Athos held tight to D'Artagnan, drawing him further into his embrace as he felt the boy sag against him, exhaustion winning over tears. He held him until Aramis eased him away so that Porthos could lift D'Artagnan and lay him out on one of the beds, covering him with a blanket and tucking him in.

 

"Drink this," Aramis ordered, thrusting a glass of wine into Athos' hand. 

 

"My thanks," Athos whispered, before draining the glass. He followed with two more before crawling into bed beside the boy, one hand resting over D'Artagnan's heart before he finally let himself drift off to sleep.

 

Porthos stood watch over both men as Aramis tended to D'Artagnan's hand. "How bad?" he asked.

 

Aramis cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "Are you asking me about D'Artagnan's hand, his overall condition, or the condition of them both?"

 

"All of it," Porthos conceded.

 

"D'Artagnan's hand will be sore but nothing's broken so it will heal. And...given that he finally let himself break and Athos took the first step to doing the same, I think they'll both be fine. They have us to watch over them, after all."

 

Porthos clapped a heavy hand on his friends's shoulder. "We have each other."

 

There was nothing more that needed to be said.

 

* * *

 

One month later, D'Artagnan made the journey back to the monastery. He had intended to go alone but, of course, his Musketeer brothers weren't about to let that happen. To be honest, D'Artangnan didn't mind. He had a heavy heart and having them with him made it lighter some how.

 

But once there, and having greeted Brother Andre, D'Artagnan climbed the hill to the tree where Pierre was buried. In his hands he carried an oversized wooden sword with Pierre's name and the date of his death carved on it. When he reached the tiny mound of dirt, D'Artagnan drove the pointed bottom into the ground so it stood as a headstone. Making it had somehow helped him to deal with his grief.

 

"I hope to honor your memory, Pierre," D'Artagnan said softly. "I will strive to be the kind of Musketeer I believe you would have grown to be. A man of honor and loyalty and strength." He then offered a prayer before making the sign of the cross. 

 

The others were waiting for him at the bottom of the hill.

 

Porthos pointed to the cross. "I didn't know you had wood carving skills," he said.

 

"There's a lot you don't know about me," D'Artagnan countered, a grin on his face.

 

"Like what?" Porthos asked, frowning.

 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Like...I'm much faster than you. Race you back to the Monastery!"

 

Porthos loved a challenge. "You're on."

 

They both looked to Athos who made a show of heaving a put upon sigh before shouting, "Go!"

 

D'Artagnan dug in his heels and took off, quickly pulling ahead of the bigger man.

 

Behind them, Aramis and Athos fell into step and they made their way at a much more sedate pace.

 

"Porthos knows D'Artagnan will be him," Aramis stated, his eyes on the racing duo.

 

"He just wants to see the boy smile again," Athos replied, a smile on his own face. A smile that turned to laughter as D'Artagnan reached the Monastery wall far ahead of Porthos and began jumping up and down in victory. Only for Porthos to reach him and reach for him, easily tossing the young Musketeer over his shoulder.

 

With casual ease, Porthos made his way back to Aramis and Porthos, a big hand smacking D'Artagnan on his backside every time he tried to wriggle free. "Look what I caught," Porthos said, bouncing up and down a bit.

 

D'Artagnan had resigned himself to his upside down position, but he offered a threat. "Keep that up and I'll puke on your boots." He could joke about it now. It had taken almost a week of patience from the others, and on his own part, for D'Artagnan to regain the ability to keep food down, after his breakdown. Upon returning to the Garrison, Treville had taken one look at the lot of them and given them another week to sort things out. It hadn't been easy, but D'Artagnan, with the help of his Musketeer brothers, had taken each day as it came. Some days had been better than others, and some still were, but he was muddling through them.

 

"You won't be so fast once we fatten you up," Porthos countered, rather smugly. "Then I'll beat you."

 

"I'll never be that fat," D'Artagnan snorted, then he yelped as he was unceremoniously dumped onto his back on the soft grass.

 

Porthos bent over his knees, laughing at him. Until D'Artagnan rolled over, grabbed one of the big man's legs and yanked hard. With a shout, Porthos fell over.

 

Athos actually laughed out loud at the shenanigans, drawing everyone's attention to himself. He cocked an eyebrow of doom at them all, which just made the others laugh that much harder. 

 

Brother Andre found them all sitting on the grass and chuckling. "We've prepared a feast with the food you so kindly brought," he stated. 

 

It had been D'Artagnan's idea to buy provisions for the Monastery, including foods that would be a treat for the orphan boys. Athos had asked him to leave him to take care of things and so he had collected enough to last a few months, along with spiced meats and candied fruits and the like as treats for tonight's meal. D'Artagnan had tried to share the cost with him, but Athos had refused, getting the boy to accept his generosity when he put it to D'Artagnan as a favor, and that he would be highly insulted if the young Musketeer refused to allow it. 

 

Looking at D'Artagnan hopefully, Brother Andre queried, "I hope you're all hungry."

 

"Famished," D'Artagnan was quick to reply, a smile on his lips as he hopped to his feet and offered a hand to Athos to pull him up as well. 

 

"I'm always hungry," Porthos stated, as he got up and helped Aramis to his feet. 

 

Brother Andre nodded, pleased. "Then come, let us eat." He turned and led the way inside.

 

The four Musketeers followed, arms slung over each other's shoulders, smiled lighting up their faces. They sat at a long table, mixed in with the other brothers and the orphan boys. It was a time of celebration that continued on into the night.

 

Athos sat with Porthos and Aramis, watching D'Artagnan as he laughed and ran and played with the Orphan boys, until they all settled around the fire pit and the youngest Musketeer regaled the boy with tales of his adventures. 

 

No longer lost in shadows, D'Artagnan glowed brighter than any flame, his spirit filled with light.

 

THE END


End file.
